


Bohemia Blue

by Cynara



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynara/pseuds/Cynara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is in Odessa when a new enigma catches his attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bohemia Blue

The coffeehouse was thick with smoke and conversations, warm against the chill of the outside night. Every coffeehouse was at once the same and unlike every other coffeehouse, which satisfied the thin man just entered.

He was exceedingly angular, so that this and not his height was the most noticeable. Only the heavy, dark brows deviated from the collection of sharp lines that otherwise defined his face; aquiline nose, shovel jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes were a sharp, piercing grey.

He made his way to an empty seat, struck by a young man sitting alone, scribbling at a stack of papers. He found a chair that put the author/poet/revolutionary within his natural view. If the young man was none of these, he clearly thought of himself as one or more of them. His hair was long, nearly reaching his collar, and permitted to curl, without any macassar. Luxuriant sideburns and a neat, worn sacksuit completed the picture.

Holmes sipped at his coffee, glancing over articles in a periodical while watching the room. The evidence was coalescing nicely in his case; it wouldn't do to rush it in impatience. Far from London, it was important to keep amused between those moments of excitement over a new piece of the problem. And perhaps, find that little jolt that could weld two trivial points into a fact.

The writer folded his pages into several packets, brushing the rest into a portfolio. A waiter whisked the inkwell and packets away, leaving a plate of pastries. This acted as a signal to a number of men who broke from their circles and joined the table if only briefly.

"You have noticed our Monsieur Dariel."

"He is a regular. Should I know his work?"

"That depends on whom you might be."

It was a cryptic exchange, which Holmes gave little mind. Much as he kept up with crime regardless of border, he tried to keep abreast of the avant-garde. A sadly natural connection between the two was often found. What was the basis of this man's renown, and how local was it?

The youth had also noticed Holmes, taking advantage of the mirrors of the decor. Unlike most of the room, he knew whom the gentleman was; not a idle vacationer seeking the waters and clement weather or other equally easy pleasures but rather a private spy. Exactly the skills he needed to leave Odessa. This was not the venue he would have thought to choose.

Holmes made his way through the throng. "Herr Dariel?" He nodded slightly as he sat at the assent. "You have a reputation."

"That proceeds me or dogs my heels, Herr --"

"Herr Siegerson. I must admit I'm not sure which, or even if it passes beyond these walls."

Dariel laughed. "Such is fame, a fickle mistress. Some men are better without fame, if they can have the rewards of their work unsalted."

"You publish under a pseudonym."

"As do you." Dariel ordered another coffee, and one for Holmes.

Holmes pondered a paper quietly before leaving.

Dariel noticed Holmes enter the coffeehouse, ignoring him for the unfinished pages. At length the last line was dashed off and the envelopes sealed, heavy with sand. Dariel bit into a pastry, amused at Holmes' thrum of impatience. "Monsieur, you've been inquiring after me?"

Holmes threw the paper down on the table. "Puzzles. You write puzzles."

"Oui. And you solve them."

It was Holmes that laughed. "I've definitely been peppered. You understand my circumspection?"

"Of course. You'll keep the house secret? It keeps the demand up."

"From one artist to another, if you do not mind the comparison."

"A strong praise indeed. Or mere flattery?"

"I never flatter."

"All men do, either others to bend them to their will, or themselves for much the same reason."

"Including yourself?"

Dariel smiled noncommittally. "You are far from your London. Either your pursuits go well or quite poor indeed to be so interested in myself. Are you sure you are not a flatterer?"

"I have a failing when I find a problem, in that I must solve it. Even a small matter can provide grist."

"No, not a flatterer. I could think of myself as sand creating the pearl? You're the abrasive one I think. Care to play chess?"

Holmes belatedly saw what Dariel had planned, and was forced to spend many moves on the retreat. After many more moves, while check was adverted, he could make no progress without opening himself to mate. "I think we can see how this will end."

"You concede."

"It is a draw."

"I look forward to a rematch. I feel sharper already."

What was to be a single commission turned into a pretty series, including several matters that might never have been aired had he not his own reasons to stay. Reasons that he had not admitted to himself.

He'd become a habitué of the coffeehouse, more specifically of Dariel's table. Their conversation was quick and sharp, enriched by the various patrons that joined and broke from the small court.

He found himself kissing Dariel in a dark niche of a theatre, and then lead through the streets and up an endless flight of stairs to a garret room, abandoning the concert during the intermission. Dariel pulled Holmes' head down again for another kiss.

Holmes ached. He shakily unbuttoned his coat at Dariel's prompting, and tried fumbling with Dariel's buttons. His fingers were too uncertain, so Dariel undressed them both. Boots bounced, Holmes lost his waistcoat. "Rene." Rene's hands ran along his braces before pushing them off his shoulders. Holmes fought Rene's waistcoat, losing his shirt.

Rene stroked the sinewy chest, and then unbuttoned Holmes' trousers and self-debagged. Holmes pushed them both onto the bed.

Holmes' eyes focused in shock as he sank, mouth rigid. Well turned legs closed over his waist, while his head and neck were cosseted and kissed. He shut his eyes, letting the ancient rhythm play out through him.

Finished, Holmes rolled onto his back, pulling as far away as the narrow bed permitted even his frame. "Irene Adler."

Irene unbuttoned her shirt, and unwound the bands from her bosom, throwing the linens to the floor. "Some flattery would be prudent, Mr. Holmes. Accolades to disguise and wit notwithstanding, I expect more in my bed."

Holmes didn't like the board he saw, hedged in by his own careless words. He had been bested so completely. Her disguise had fooled him completely. She knew this from his own damning mouth. "And just what do you expect?" A pretense against checkmate was the least, and the most, he could manage.

"Perhaps too much from you." She kissed him with closed lips before laying closer to him. "It's too bad you consider yourself just a brain."

She had miscalculated. A simple plan was best, and she had brought complications upon herself. That her original plan would not have worked, was small comfort. Mr. Holmes was still in Odessa, though he no longer came to the coffeehouse. Practical, she would have to see her plan through. Soon.

Irene needed to escape, not just the city, nor the empire. America, though the land of her birth, would be no refuge; too easy to disappear in that land without pasts. A crowded place was the best, where one's enemies had to practice discretion. Britain was perfect, with its busy press.

Mr. Holmes had seemed perfect too. She'd just have to make him play his part.

Holmes was smoking when she entered. "Miss Adler, I wondered when I'd see you."

"You could have found me."

"Your position is very weak." After he'd left the garret room, bathed, eaten and slept, the ridiculousness of the situation struck him. She couldn't accuse him in her own person, any evidence damning her too. She might find a proxy, though it would be unnecessary; rumor would be enough to take the most interesting cases from his reach.

"I need your help." She shifted as heading for the window and halted. She sat. "They may already know. The Okhrana. I must leave this place."

"What may they know?" She was a fine actress. Only in Russia might a mention of the secret police not be an overreaction.

"That I'm with child."

So that was her ploy. "It is a condition not uncommon with royal mistresses. Of course you'll marry, clearing up someone's gambling debts, perhaps."

"Not a Jewess. There will be a scandal. Would. They will stop at nothing."

Holmes waited for it. This would explain a lot.

"It's yours."

"Splendid, almost convincing. Would you have me marry you?"

"Listen to my plan before you mock me."

"Holmes!" Dr. Watson brought his friend in to the hearth, settling him into the chair and ringing the bell. He forced a brandy to the thin lips. He started to examine the marks on the lean face.

"Leave me be." He turned, at the click of china on a tray. "That is all the medic I need, hot tea and Mrs. Hudson's cookery." He was annoyed that Watson so quickly obliged, and then that this peeved him. He forced himself to stay in the sitting room until he'd had his considerable fill of scones and sandwiches. Watson did not question him, but kept to his book. Holmes smoked a pipe before retreating to his room.

Holmes could ignore extraneous stimuli when he was hot upon a case. Hunger, lack of sleep, discomforts of most any sort. His keen pitched senses between cases pricked at the least little thing. "You've not observed." He sank onto his bed still dressed. Watson had stopped being someone he watched, how long ago?

"Sand indeed." Irene had left him with an, awareness, that was positively dangerous. He could no longer class what he felt for Watson as friendship, not purely friendship. He worried the jagged edge of his reactions to Watson's ministrations.

It wasn't anything cerebral. Heat. Smell. Watson as benefited a doctor had a firm, gentle touch. Holmes was drawn to his moustache. There was also a familiarity, a history. Unlike Dariel.

Dariel. Perhaps a man with different habits would have noticed Irene's masquerade sooner; Holmes considered it nearly flawless. He had been attracted, as an intellectual puzzle. An attractive puzzle, with secret teeth.

It was pointless. It had always been pointless and now it was infinitely so. A secret known was too dangerous to share. Should anything ever be suggested, Watson's safety would depend on his lightening honesty. Not a whit or whiff of an actor about Watson.

"Holmes, this seems a strange case for you." Watson thought to the huge, almost Pantomime figure of the Czar so lately in their room.

"I'll admit that the retrieval of a photograph seems a petty matter. It shouldn't pose much difficulty." The commission was far from that simple. He thought it unlikely there was a photograph. Irene wouldn't have been so foolish, even after involving herself with the heir apparent of all the Russias. The Czar wanted no less than Irene posing no further complications. What proof could he produce?

"It doesn't seem sporting, after her eluding so many attempts already." Watson disliked the open way the Czar had recounted his agents' treatment of the singer.

"No. There is only the chance that I will procure the picture and they will leave these shores. Miss Adler has been very lucky to escape with her life so far." Holmes regarded his friend's shock. "What is the life of one woman, foreign at that, against an empire? Russia is a powder keg of animosities held loosely in check. No alliance can be placed in jeopardy without risking the whole. A point lost on both the heir and Miss Adler."

"Why should she keep the picture then?"

"Only a woman knows. Pride perhaps, or shame. The nuances are infinite, from the petty to the grandiose." He paused briefly. The plan was bold enough to work. "Watson, you may wish to take notes on this case. You could save it for those two years."

"Publish such a delicate matter of state? Wouldn't that appear a breach?"

"I'm confident you can provide sufficient distraction and misdirection." Holmes took up his stick from the stand and his hat. "Do not bother staying up."

Watson saw Holmes disappear into the night past the second streetlamp. No, he wouldn't wait for his friend's return. Unlike during their early association, he now had duties and rounds. Not a practice, true; first he hadn't been well enough to do much other than wonder about his roommate. Then, his returning strength found itself tested against his friend's cases. He'd proved unwilling to give up the excitement, and found this a suitable compromise. Watson took down a book and settled into a chair.

"What are you doing here?" Irene pulled back from Holmes, letting him inside her house. The suit worked counter to his natural slimness, shaving him of a few inches in height. Makeup smoothed his face into planes from its natural collection of edges, further assisted by a mustache. Almost handsome.

"The Czar is here."

"You want the Okhrana to see you."

"I want them to see Mr. Godfrey Norton." Holmes closed the distance, counterfeiting the attitude of a lover.

"I am to become Mrs. Godfrey Norton? You know a priest." Irene played her part as a reluctant, yet willing to be convinced, maiden.

"We will lead them in great haste to St. Monica's."

"So they cannot miss the importance of our production." It was an audacious plan, if not somewhat ludicrous. "I accept your proposal, Mr. Norton."

Holmes detached Irene gently. He traced over where Dariel's sideburns had been.

"I'm sorry, too." She clasped the long fingers and brought them to her lips. Irene smiled brightly. "Tell me more of your plan."

Holmes returned to Baker Street the next day in the persona of a drunken groom, unable to resist the joke despite not being able to share it. He painted the scene for Watson, from Norton's hasty arrival, to the chase of two cabs and a landau, and how he'd been pulled in as the witness. It was an amalgam of fact and fiction, he having been of course in the first cab and not the final vehicle, which was unrelated and fortuitous.

"What will you do now?"

"Eat. Mr. Norton appears to have pressing matters of his own as he did not return with née Irene Adler. Watson, I will have need of you tonight. If you do not mind breaking the law?"

As Holmes expected, Watson warmed to the part he was to play. If only he'd consent... No, it didn't do to think that way. Once Irene was safely away, he would be able to better rein himself. A small aberration in his rational life could be contained. Had to be contained.

Irene looked at the gathered crowd with concern. In the details it was eminently English, but the effect was like a book illustration. Could this be another attempt to waylay her?

Events happened quickly, with a squabble that escalated into a row involving nearly all the supernumerary persons in the lane. The nonconformist clergyman was the last thing she expected. He was struck down quickly.

"Bring him inside." She ignored the various protestations on whether he was alive or not. She solicitously tended him as people left the sitting room. "Holmes." She whispered it, careful of her maid. His discomfiture at being recognized almost made up for the fright. She looked around, trying to figure out what his game was this time. Clearly this was part of misdirecting the Okhrana. The room filled with smoke. Shouts of "Fire" broke outside.

Irene stepped back from her safe as she heard Holmes declare a false alarm over the hubbaloo outside. She closed the safe back up and dashed away.

Holmes made his way from Irene's, finding Watson at the corner. He spent their walk explaining what had happened out of his friend's sight. "The application of false blood is an easy bit of stagecraft." The Czar, and thus Watson also, needed to believe Holmes was after the picture. The Okhrana were watching him of course. It was important to minimize how often he slipped their observation, least they become suspicious. It was for that reason he'd chose Watson to toss the plumber's flare to flush Irene to reveal her safe, and why they walked openly together.

Mr. Norton was the exception. There he had shaken his tail. He wondered which of the denizens of his bolthole they'd thought was him leaving in disguise. He'd calculated correctly they would ignore the gentlemen that frequented certain rooms there. It was not until he'd reached Miss Adler's house he was again in their view. Afterwards he made the opposite deception, leaving Mr. Norton off where Holmes could escape as an nondescript laborer. Baker Street had long been accustomed to the strangest folks entering 221.

They had reached the door, Holmes digging for his key, when a passerby said, "Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes." Holmes mentally marked a chit for Irene, while annoyed at the damnable risk she'd taken. It was vital she make her way to ground.

"Wonder who that was?"

Watson looked over at Holmes gazing upon the portrait of Irene Adler. It was natural enough, for she truly was a woman such that a man might die for. He himself had almost been stayed from completing his task yesterday when he'd seen her. Holmes was unmoved by her beauty. He stared at her photograph as if she were an opposing general.

Holmes had known failure on occasion. Watson wasn't sure how it had happened this time. The Czar had appeared that breakfast and they had rushed to the house in his brougham, only to find the scene of an abandoned ship. That letter! Holmes at least had been able to convince the Czar that the photograph would only surface under extreme duress. He was so pleased he offered the very signet ring off his hand.

Watson looked at his friend again. If Irene could not move Holmes, beyond an intellectual combat, he was lost. There had been a few clients, that Watson had thought might hold his interest beyond their cases. Violet, there were so many Violets, the one that lost her tresses, she was one. He thought over the years. No, his friend had given up those tender motivations, perhaps as the price for his skills.

Holmes castigated himself. What had he been thinking? He should be relieved that Watson should shortly be out of harm's reach. They'd caught up with the treasure, preserving some of it from the Thames. A detail Watson had missed until after he'd made his proposal and Mary had accepted. Holmes giggled. How many men had discovered the opposite?

Still, Holmes couldn't be happy. Watson hardly knew Mary, though he'd admit she was reasonably diligent. He'd not been praising her heedlessly about preserving the notes and letters. The cocaine bottle indeed.

Soon there would be one bachelor for the seventeen stairs. He could of course seek other rooms if he wished them; even when they had first taken them, Holmes could have with austerity taken them by himself. Now, he could buy the house if he so chose. It was better to stay at Baker Street. It was respectable enough not to offend certain clients, while the area was not such as to make other clients feel awkward. Or to take too much offense at his own entrances.

It had been bound to happen of course. Watson had forever been pointing out clients' qualities to him. Eventually he'd chose one himself. It was better that Watson do so before their friendship could be poisoned. If only a case would come.

Watson of course did not disappear from the rooms all at once. Even a marriage contracted over the course of an adventure required certain preparations. Banns had to be read repeatedly. A domicile for the new family had to be found. Holmes found the temptation to tell Watson impossible so he stayed away when he could.

The maid was surprised to see a gentleman at the door so late, but took the card inside quickly. The mistress of the house invited him in personally. "What brings you out this way?"

Holmes did not know what he was thinking. "How are the children?" Irene had settled out of the way as a new widow, delivering twins.

"Well, thank you." She read the calling card. "Does your stationer know?" She made her own observations and deductions, including his seeming need to not use his proper name. It wasn't just caution for her own safety. "Shall we play chess?"

Holmes quickly saw that he was outmatched, his pieces scattered and hounded. He fought the battle relentlessly and without hope. He was distracted enough he missed Irene stringing his men along to prolong the game. He covered her hand as she captured. He was in checkmate quickly.

"It's too late for you to travel." Irene had weighed her choices as she measured her moves. She had to admit Holmes' appearance was flattering, even, if not especially, his nerves. He wasn't susceptible to her charms as most men were, and even her love of a challenge wouldn't disguise that simple fact. He would always be his own master. That presented its own promise, together with his honed senses and other attributes. "My maid will prepare you a room."

Holmes, after changing made his way into Irene's chamber; a countryhouse childhood had been instructive enough. She was a beautiful woman. He took the attitude of a lover, false as that was.

Irene leaned into the embrace, murmuring her appreciation, guiding the long fingers over her curves. They lingered with an undemanding pace. There was a frisson knowing this was only for her, that he had no haste for his own destination. She luxuriated in the lesson, sighing; his variations were as if she were an exotic viol. The long, fine fingers stroked and pressed, their calluses and strength heady with their precision. She lolled with unrelieved pleasure. Irene turned into the lips that had been teasing her neck, plundering them greedily. Holmes wrapped his arms around her.

She smoothed her hands over him, caressing his severe angularity. She untied his sash, and pulled his gown from his shoulders. Irene hadn't much chance to look at him in the garret, lit only by an obscured moon. He was if anything paler, and a complete jangle of lines and angles. Breathtaking.

Her hands darted over him, followed scars and sinews. She drew him into the bed, desirous to feel more of him. His skin was exceptionally smooth, stretched tight over hard flat muscles. Her lips brushed against it.

Holmes pulled Irene up by the waist, entering her. He was overwhelmed, his hands still for a moment, his jaw slack before he resumed his distraction tinged ministrations. He varied his attack, pitching to her stronger reactions.

Irene threw her head back and clasped onto him tight. She scrambled to direct Holmes to this or that part of her. She longed to drive him mad, to force his passion. She consoled her own, pulling him into a kiss.

Holmes felt himself breaking, pieces sliding free like a train pulling away from the station. He broke the kiss, resting his face alongside Irene's cheek. Her hair was too long now to pass as Rene. Fingers stroked his hair, and she kissed his jaw. He let his release crash through him.

Irene looked at Holmes, sombulant from slaked... Nothing good could come of this. She moved closer to him, impressed at one made mostly of joints being so boneless in repose. She slipped into a doze.

They did not speak of it in the morning. Irene awoke alone, as she expected. The bed had already cooled, which she did not. It was not until he prepared his departure that he said anything outside of porcelain, optics and obscure languages, beyond the normal conversation two such as themselves might have.

"May I visit again?" It was presumptuous, it was foolhardy and not entirely satisfactory. Even if she was, if Rene Dariel, if he was, it would still be a substitution for his heart's desire. Too late he'd found that organ and its true north. Still, he awaited the answer with trepidation.

"Of course, Mr. Sigerson."

It was almost a relief when he received word of her engagement. His visits had become more debilitating, more of an addiction than the seven percent solution. The agony columns were a most vital service of the daily papers. He'd almost brought it to Watson's attention, forgetting that his friend was not there, was rarely there. Doctor Watson was at his own hearth, as he had been for most of the many months since he'd wed. Their paths crossed only so often as not to draw attention to the parting of ways.

Holmes found himself in the Stranger's Room at his brother's club. What Watson didn't know was that Mycroft wasn't a simple accountant and this club was not simply fresh periodicals and comfortable chairs for unsociable men. "And why do you tell me this?"

Mycroft looked at his younger brother, so like their departed mother. "Should I flatter you? Beseech your love of crown and country? You need a change. I have some work. A nice harmony."

"A very nice economy." He almost asked if his brother had had a hand in Irene's marriage. It was too telling a comment, even if it would fluster his brother. He very much doubted Mycroft knew he'd been visiting her, or that her marriage would pose any inconvenience. "Work abroad?"

"Naturally. I'm short on fluent operatives with your abilities at disguise."

"Mycroft."

"I am short on fluent operatives. And none have you facility with histrionics." Mycroft poured them both drinks. "You've been saying the criminal mind has been lacking."

"I will need to put my affairs in order." Holmes did not like his brother's expression. He finished his drink and left.

Holmes watched Watson below until his friend finally left the Falls, carrying the abandoned alpenstock. Though their habits were no longer close as once they were, Watson would have grown concerned at Holmes growing uncommunicative. Dead, Holmes posed less risk to his friend.

And had no reason to return. He only hoped London could bear the wake the underworld was sure to throw. It was Mycroft's problem now. Holmes smiled at the thought of his nephew giving his uncle the Talk. Heir and a spare indeed.

Holmes disappeared, and Herr Sigerson met the operative waiting to brief him.

Watson was sitting in his study, mostly out of avoidance of the rest of the house. He'd written most of his stories at this desk, either in spurts between patients, or late at night when he could not sleep. It was ironic that he should have sent his last story, Holmes ' last story, to the publisher but weeks before his own Mary passed. He looked up when a visitor was announced. It was the bookseller from the street.

He'd bumped into the old man while looking at the scene of the latest peculiar crime, knocking several volumes from his hand. The man had come to apologize for his gruff words in the lane, and also to attempt a transaction for those same tumbled books. Watson deigned to look at the books.

He looked up from one of the books to find Sherlock Holmes. Impossible! "Holmes?" He walked around the desk, dropping in a faint.

Holmes leaned down, cursing himself for shocking his friend, so close on the heels of his wife's death. He looked over his shoulder to locate the brandy bottle. Holmes turned back, and was pulled down into a kiss. Holmes opened himself to it, plumbing Watson's mouth. He smiled at the feel of Watson's moustache.

"You're real." Watson latched onto Holmes again, desperate to have at least this. He thought he was dreaming when Holmes didn't pull away, and stretched alongside him.

"We don't have time for this." Holmes looked up, castigating himself for considering locking the door. "We have a colonel to catch."

"Holmes, I... How are you alive?"

"I never fell into the roaring waters of Reichenbach. It was better that the world think me dead, for me to hunt my prey. And Colonel Moran is the last of Professor Moriaty's men left free. Or don't you want the Honourable Ronald Adair avenged?"

Watson looked at his friend. "You saw me at the house. Let me get my revolver." Watson stood. "Holmes..."

"We'll talk once we have the colonel."

They lay in wait for Moran in Camden House, empty across from 221 Baker Street. Watson wondered if perhaps even the littlest of the Irregulars had been notified of Holmes' survival before him. This irritation served him in good stead during the interminable time between trap sprung and freedom of the formalities of Scotland Yard.

"Would you like to see the Rooms?" Holmes wondered if Watson had cooled, no longer fueled by shock. If so, he'd have to find some way to convince him.

"What of the fire?"

"Mycroft... Let us see how Mrs. Hudson has managed."

Watson forgot his questions, reminded of the risks his landlady of old had undertaken. Having been in battle, and seen its effects on young men, he was surprised by Mrs. Hudson's warm greeting. She offered the very bullet intended for Holmes, explaining that the bust was completely spoiled. Holmes with that fine delicacy he could exhibit suggested she keep it, wrapping her fingers around the crumpled slug.

Holmes halted imperceptibly at the top of the 17 steps, before unlocking the door. The broken glass had already been replaced by Mycroft's cleaners. He looked for the bullet pock to no avail.

"Holmes." Watson couldn't stop looking at the waxwork bust with the entry and exit craters. Afghanistan was enough to picture had it really been Holmes in the window. He looked up as Holmes draped a curtain over it.

"Take your old seat. I've missed London, and these rooms." Holmes prepared them each a drink and took his own chair. "Watson, if you have changed--"

"I should apologize. No, please don't interrupt. I should apologize, but cannot. My only remorse is to not have realized what I felt."

Holmes now did interrupt. "Watson, could you," he grasped his friend's hand, "would you" Holmes stroked his thumb up and down Watson's wrist. "Will you move back into Baker Street?"

Watson looked towards the window. "I've my practice. Yes." Watson swallowed. "How. How do we avoid discovery?"

"Your room, your old room here, has had heavy curtains for years. If you repair there only at night, no one will wonder at the continuing custom." He saw Watson shiver. "Watson--"

"May we start our custom?"

"Your room's not ready." Mrs. Hudson had by stages made it another lumberroom. Holmes looked at Watson. "My room has been prepared." He stood, unbalanced by Watson's regard. They made their way back, Holmes locking the door and turning back the covers.

Watson leaned in and kissed Holmes, pulling him to sit side by side. Jackets and then collars were removed and discarded. Watson caught a long-fingered hand and kissed its back and palm. He unbuttoned Holmes' waistcoat.

Holmes removed Watson's waistcoat and started on his shirt buttons. He felt Watson finishing the work, Holmes fascinated by Watson's chest hair. He pulled them together.

Watson peeled the shirts from them, sighing at the feel of Holmes wrapped around him, at the feel of Holmes' spine under his fingers. He dropped his hand to the wool trouser leg. Holmes looked him in the eye.

Holmes and Watson unbuttoned their trousers and finished stripping. Watson pulled them together and Holmes pushed them into the bed. Their seeking mouths rove over faces, necks and shoulders while hips surged together. Holmes grabbed Watson's, thinking to slow them and quiet the bed.

Watson rolled them, straddling Holmes, his face pressed into the long neck. He drove his hips down, his pace slow and deliberate. He nuzzled along the sharp jaw as Holmes grasped him, clutched him in pleasure.

Holmes languished in the kiss before Watson moved to the other side of his neck, mustache brushing, tickling. Watson's skin was hot and addictive and he did all he could to increase the contact. He cinched his arms around Watson tight, and even flung a leg over and between Watson's. Nothing could be enough.

Watson suckled at the bobbing Adam's apple, central with Holmes' head thrown back, neck stretched taut. His hands stole up the flexing back and over the pale shoulders to trace Holmes' face. His face was raised for a kiss and Watson was falling, plundered, spent.

Holmes ghosted fingertips over Watson's slumped form, heavy on his chest. A comfortable weight, reassuring in its pressure. Holding him together, proof against phantasm. Eventually he'd have to wash and make a distraction in the sitting room as if he'd sat up much of the night. Now, he reveled.

Holmes briefly escaped public notice of his return, though well-placed persons availed themselves of his services nearly continually. He almost welcomed the first attempt on his life, as distraction from yet another case of personal mismanagement.

Fortunately prettier cases were occasionally brought forth by green-grocers, office-clerks, dance instructors and the like, of which several had great national, and in one matter, international ramifications.

"Are you going to open your correspondence, or should I offer you the jackknife?" Holmes looked at the desk.

"They are from publishers." Holmes of course knew that, as did the tweeny. Watson found the idea of more stories extremely distasteful to him. The writings had largely been his mourning, his unrealized love poured out onto paper. He thought it ill-omened to revisit them, to record any more cases.

Holmes nodded as Watson dutifully assaulted the stack. "You might sell them one just to cover the postage." Holmes distracted Watson with a discourse on the history of the national postal service, with small digressions on the American pony express. Only the first story predated Watson's late wife.

Watson, finished, looked over at Holmes. Holmes' white hands could touch him now, his beaky nose press against his cheek as they kissed. It was too dangerous that they often share Watson's bed, but that didn't prevent exchanged kisses or embraces.

"It's late." Watson's eyes crinkled as Holmes rescued the almost dropped pipe. He went upstairs to his room, and placed the warmed brick at the foot of the bed. Soon Holmes joined him and with clothes cast off they bundled into bed.

It made when they did sweeter and keener. Holmes was a revelation seeking every nerve with a ravenous passion, every chest hair, every callous and scratch. He was beautiful from the tips of his long toes to the bridge of his thin hawk nose.

Watson kissed the high cheekbone, nudging his way to the thin lips plushed by friction. Holmes' mouth opened to his, their tongues sliding together, tangling, probing. Watson broke the kiss. "Holmes, I want, I want you to, I need you..." He couldn't find words, form words for his desire. He turned in Holmes' embrace.

Holmes locked his arms around Watson's. "Not that way." Holmes kissed his way between the shoulders, with oblique attentions to the wound. Slowly he rolled Watson onto his back.

"Yes, that way." Difficult as it was, Watson was adamant and mostly ignored Holmes' ministrations. He nearly pleaded when Holmes stopped.

"Not face down. Permit me that and I will consider the matter." Holmes lay back,steely.

"Are you still intent on your request?" Holmes breathed the words into Watson's ear as he unbuttoned a cuff. He waited for the answer, uncertain what reply he preferred. It had been so far beyond his hopes that Watson would reciprocate his love, that they might make such an intimate breech of the law, that the suggestion had surprised him.

After the shock had passed, the solution had been obvious. He'd delayed, to permit Watson to consider the matter. Ardor cooled he might regret such atavism. Holmes removed Watson's other cuff, considering him redecided. Holmes piled their clothing and joined Watson in bed.

"Yes. I want you, Holmes." He placed his hands over Holmes' neck. "How do you prefer to take me?"

Holmes looked at the out of reach clothing. "You have something--" His query was answered by a jar of unguent. Holmes tucked it aside, embracing Watson tight. "Completely, to the last farthing nail." He kissed him possessively, mouth sealed over Watson's, dueling his tongue.

He maneuvered behind Watson, drawing the kiss out like molten glass. He leaned towards his right, John pulled spine to sternum against him. He could still meet Watson's eye, still see his face. Holmes caressed Watson from his determined, kind jaw, down the strong neck, bluff chest and strong belly, onto his thigh. He dug out the jar with one hand, unscrewing the lid. It smelt of lavender and beeswax.

Holmes pressed his left leg between Watson's, his finger smoothing the ointment into folded flesh. Watson reared, and Holmes pulled back his hand. He quickly anointed himself, aligning with the closed portal, stroking it, pressing, teasing it open. "John." It was exquisite. He sank deeper, past the second ring. Holmes stroked forward slowly, pulling back half way each time.

Watson's eyes widened. John rocked against Holmes, finding the stabbing bliss again. Again. He moaned when Holmes took control over hitting or not hitting the spot. Playing broken patterns on his most intimate recesses.

Holmes cradled John's cheek, turning his head for a kiss. He succumbed to it, abandoning his hips to time immemorial as John conquered his mouth. His seed spilled into Watson.

Holmes watched the tableau before him with an ambivalence. Not because Watson wished to visit his son, but rather from the awareness that Watson wouldn't be a distant father if not for him. He would have found a new wife to foster the child as soon as would have been honorable. Instead... He supposed the boy thought nothing of it, surrounded as he was by other children. It wasn't a large establishment, no barracks orphanage. Only the close ages of the boys, and their dissimilar features precluded it from being a family.

Holmes walked away, back to the pub where he'd allow Watson to find him. He expected John would understand why he'd wanted to see young James. They both owed the child an unkind debt. Holmes would have remained abroad, doing his brother's bidding, without Mary's death. John could never have played the false husband.

He stopped the bitter thoughts, aware that anticipated trouble was never halved when it came. Watson's family was no worse off than the children of empire. Holmes brightened, pondering whether he was a mission to the heathen or in need of governance. James was at least allowed his father more often.

Holmes wondered how Irene's husband found his domestic hearth. He was a new sort of man, more like a Rothschild than a Disraeli. Holmes had assumed Irene married for security, but from his one conversation with her after his return, it was at least as much for companionship.

Holmes was man of habits, extreme and irregular as they might be. Watson could not change that, even as one of those extreme habits. Holmes had exceeded even his formable resources for thriving through deprivation. It was with much exasperation that Watson had to consult an expert to force Holmes to see reason and take a rest.

"Such a cheery love nest. Thank you." After a moment of admiring the bleak Cornish landscape, Holmes attacked the case containing his reading. A little comparative philology to prevent the ossification of his mental processes during this enforced rustication.

He wasn't prepared quite yet to admit Watson was right. It was a quirk of his nature, that when the work was heavy to take on more than he should stand, simply from the fear he might never see such cases again. Even when the cases of themselves weren't especially promising.

Perhaps especially. There had been a time when he had only worked one case to conclusion before picking up another. He lost himself to his text.

Watson leaned down beside Holmes. "Come to bed?" Holmes had paused in his readings only once, during their cold meal. He turned to regard Watson with a most profound perplexity.

Holmes slipped a page of his notes in the book to keep his place. It had grown quite dark. Watson appeared much more appealing than Chaldeans and tin mines. He followed him to the bedroom, sneaking long fingers past the dressing gown.

The years had honed this dance, without blunting the excitement. Expectation made it sharper, surer. Their hands teased, removed clothes. They kissed slowly, mouths lingering everwhere and nowhere. Holmes pulled Watson upon him, clutching him possessively.

Watson pressed against Holmes, building the friction. He'd missed this, always missed this when Holmes lived on water and nicotine. It was so much rarer that Holmes indulged in this, as he might in a musical concert or a nice meal, while waiting for facts in a case.

"Holmes!" Watson gripped the shins thrown over his shoulders. The unexpected position brought his phallus into Holmes' crease. He rocked, straining not to drive into Holmes. He looked to the jar of salve out of reach on the nightstand. His knees tightened on either side of Holmes' hips, incapable of forming a request.

Holmes looked down in consternation, seeing Watson's object of fixation. He quickly gave over the jar, opened.

Watson quickly coated himself, thrusting into Holmes. His hands stroked over thigh and flank. He fell forward, pulled down by Holmes' legs. He caught white shoulders as Holmes latched onto his mouth, mimicking above as below.

They surged, heaved, boiled. Holmes knitted long fingers over Watson's head. Watson hugged Holmes tight. Waves swelled, crested, crashing them down from an impossible height.

"You-" Watson gave up, Holmes' smile too distracting. He basked, until his leg balked. He again considered Holmes' contorted position, puzzled how to release them. He unclamped his arms as Holmes' thighs shifted. Watson trembled, pleasure twining with the pain. He slipped from Holmes.

Holmes pressed his hands over the charley horse. "I should have considered your wound."

"Holmes." He was truly exasperating. "Are you unhurt?"

"Your Hippocratic oath is safe." Holmes was drawn back down. "Your leg?"

"Damn my leg." He besieged the spot just behind Holmes' ear, smiling at the weird limp and tense effect it had. "You are telling the truth?"

Holmes just brushed his lips over Watson's brow, drowsy. They both drifted off.

The enforced rest was working well, returning weight Holmes hadn't had to lose, and a small amount of color. It was also happy that they only had to worry about the cook on alternate days, otherwise being left to their own devices.

Watson was thus dismayed at the appearance of a case, though Holmes pricked to the peculiar incident. It was fortunate that their visitors came during their after breakfast smoke. Scandalizing a vicar would shorten their holiday.

A lady dead and two brothers driven mad in a locked room, the case was most outré. It was the death of the fourth member of the family that brought the matter to a head. Holmes, unlike was so often the case, showed no sign at the original scene of knowing by whom and how matters had come to pass.

Holmes set up the lamp, precisely like the one in the vicar's fatal room, and administered the residue to where it might be heated. He opened the window and door in the cottage slightly, uncertain of the potentency of the compound.

Watson pulled Holmes onto the lawn. "Stamford once said you'd test a vegetable alkaloid on yourself. How dare you prove him right?" He was stared in utter confoundment when Holmes dashed back into the cottage. Before he could rush forward and drag him back, Holmes heaved the extinguished lamp into a damp hollow. Watson reined in the impulse to further berate Holmes' foolish endangerment and instead took a clinical aspect, checking Holmes pulse, eyes and listening to his chest, giving a detailed accounting of the symptoms.

It was thus sitting out that they met the source of the fiendish Cornish Horror.

Holmes returned to Baker Street, placing his hat and walking stick carefully at the door. He had seen the retreat of the wedding party completely on happenstance, having been away from London for some months clearing up several cases of a most delicate nature. He fell into the chair, before of the dark fireplace.

He should have been attending his own affairs. Watson, his Watson. He couldn't identify the woman, the veils and the brevity of the sighting completely obscured her face. Holmes could find the answer, if he had the inclination. Why bother.

There had been no letter, no telegram. Was there something left here? He mastered the impulse to tear the rooms apart, eager for something. Instead, he got up from the chair, gingerly, and walked up to Watson's room. The bed was made with clean linens, no longer fresh from washing. The pitcher was dry, and nothing of Watson's remained. Except Holmes.

Watson embraced his wife, dreading explaining himself to Holmes. He breathed her perfume, relearning a woman's curves. He'd been uncertain how to respond to the letter. Their secret was known. Perhaps it was inevitable, to lose as they'd lived, to someone observing as well as seeing. He bent to kiss her soft lips, stroking the fine material covering her shoulders. Such promise.

He had had no particular intentions. He had wanted Holmes' opinion, Holmes' decision. Sherlock was otherwise occupied on affairs concerning several nations. Then she appeared, seeking Holmes. She was most oblique as for the reason to visit him at such a late date.

"John," She unbuttoned his waistcoat, and worked at his shirtfront. "It's touching, but I'm not a blushing virgin." Her hands were clasped and kissed. "Oh, John." She leaned into him, brushing fingers over his shirted sides.

He tipped her head back, gently opening the kiss, touching his tongue to hers. They were breathless when they finally sat on the bed. Watson heeded the dainty fingers, unbuttoning and discarding his shirt along with the vest. He teased away the peignoir. "You're lovely."

"You are a flatterer. Tell me more." She insinuated her hand at his fly, unbuttoning his trousers.

"Words fail me." He removed his trousers, sliding close to his bride. He stroked and cradled her, memorizing every swell, every dip. He fanned her hair over the pillow, kissed her and made her his. He'd forgotten this, the sweet restraint in a woman's arms. He balanced on his forearms and calves, his strokes slow and short.

She held onto his back softly, her neck arched so delicately. His speed increased as did their motion. She clutched at him, unmooring him. He drifted back to her snugged against him. She fit there so well. How would he explain to Holmes?

Days, then weeks and finally months passed, Watson never quite determining how to explain to Holmes. The impossibility increased exponentially with the delay. His joy with his household, his children and his wife's children, was enough to swallow even the guilt that would descend when he thought of Holmes.

Finally, he went to 221 Baker Street, intent to say something. He didn't fear that it would be awkward, for he knew it must be. The street looked much as it had when he'd left less than a year ago. A strange feeling of dread settled over him, increasing as he rang the bell.

He turned over his card, surprised when Mrs. Hudson came to the door, rather than him being shown upstairs. What she told him wasn't possible. Holmes retired? No longer in London. He thanked her politely, and left, walking in something of a daze. An era had passed without his knowing. Holmes was gone.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> And thus the events Mycroft contemplated arise.


End file.
